


Tiny Trees. Sway in, then Breathe.

by pamdizzle



Series: Dreams of Lace and Satin [13]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Established Relationship, Frottage, He does gangster shit, Humor, M/M, Marijuana, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Oswald is a fucking Gangster, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 11:55:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15266982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: Oswald has to address somemurderbusiness on the seedier side of town, and ends up with a little something for his troubles.Or, the one where we learn about Oswald's drug-trafficking ring, and Jim learns how to relax.





	Tiny Trees. Sway in, then Breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the notes at the end if you're curious about some of the thought process that went into this installment. 
> 
> This answers the accidental shotgunning prompt by LeNoir. *finger guns*

Oswald wrinkles his nose as he climbs from the back of his car to be led into a dilapidated building a stone’s throw from Crime Alley, surrounded by Butch, and a handful of his other paid hands. It’s an old Packard transmission factory which was closed in the early fifties, left rotting away with the rest of the East End. The outer walls appear to be crumbling, its upper levels seemingly eroded away by decades of the harsh gales that blow in from over the surrounding lakes in Gotham’s colder months.

Its decayed façade is helped along by the acid raid, which has eaten away much of the building’s painted-on Packard Logo. The windows are boarded up with rotting wood, not an unbroken glass pane to be had among them. It makes the building look much older and far less safe than it is.

Oswald should be wary of setting a single foot inside, let alone strutting down the stairs of the building into its basement as if he owns the place. Of course, most people have no clue as to what lay beneath the solid floors of the building, nor its perfectly intact foundation or sturdy, load-bearing walls. Packard built their factory with the intent of growing into it. They never did, obviously, but that’s a story for another time—and Oswald does know the story. He knows all there is to know about every brick, column and conveyor.

Because he _does_ own the building, after all. If in a very round-about sort of way.

Should his operation ever be dissected to its very roots, the deed can’t be traced back to any names or accounts associated with Oswald himself. Which is why this order of business must be carried out expediently. The longer this takes, the longer those desperate eyes in the dark of the alley have to figure out exactly who just rolled up onto their turf.

Unmarked though his sedan may be, word travels fast, and the process of elimination can discern quite a lot. Personal visits to the seedier branches of his organization pose, in some ways, the largest risk to himself. The GCPD doesn’t have time to bat an eyelash at traditional narcotics when Crane and Ivy are unleashing all manner of unholy new street drugs upon the city on a semi-regular basis.

Oswald’s tiny little grow-op is nary a blip on their radar. The federal authorities, however, are an entirely different matter. One little call from a rival to the FBI and a hair more than circumstantial evidence is all it would take, which is why the cogs of his empire are designed to run independently of his covers. These little visits should only occur in extreme cases, as a matter of life and death. Unfortunately for Mick, Oswald’s distributor, that is exactly what this is.

“Hello, Mick,” Oswald greets cheerily as he descends the final stair into the underground hydroponics lab. Oswald surveys the rows of neatly cultivating plants, in various stages of maturity as he glances around the room. On the surface, things appear to be running without so much as a slip—his employees dutifully tend the plants on the drying racks in one corner of the room while the finished product is shaken, weighed and packaged in another. At the sound of his voice, they all seem to pause in their tasks to regard him curiously.

“Good evening, everyone,” He greets them warmly. His audience exchange wary glances before Oswald claps as he informs, “I’m here to award all of you a performance bonus for your excellent work.”

Oswald nods to Raúl who steps forward with a heavy duffle bag full of cash. “If you’ll all kindly follow Raúl here, he will reward you for your hard work accordingly.” He adds, as his employees whisper excitedly among themselves in their orderly path up the stairs, “By all means, take the rest of the evening off as an additional expression of my appreciation. We’re going to be doing some rearranging around the office, so enjoy your long weekend.”

Several cheers and a chorus of ‘Thank you, Mister Penguin’ sound off around him, and Oswald smiles genuinely. Most of his staff consists of disillusioned college students, so it’s rare to see them so enthusiastic and he does enjoy being the cause. The future of Gotham is looking bright indeed.

“Mister Penguin…” Mick presents his hands placatingly as he steps forward beseechingly from behind his computer, drawing Oswald’s attention.

Butch levels his gun at the man’s chest, bringing him up short. “On your knees, hands behind your head,” he demands.

Mick’s eyes track wildly before he makes the predictable attempt to run. There’s only one way out, however, so he watches disinterestedly for the half-minute it takes for his men to subdue his wayward distributor. When Mick is secured, Oswald casually steps around to his desk. He goes about opening all the drawers, sifting through them calmly while Mick plays dumb.

“Has something happened?” he asks innocently. “I can assure you, whatever it is, I’ve kept my mouth shut, sir.”

Oswald hums, knocking against the surfaces of the desk until he hears a tell-tale hollow echo behind the wood. He prods the outside edge of the desk and denotes a minute shifting of the side panel.

“Open it,” he orders Mick, who Butch kicks between the shoulder blades, forcing him down onto his hands and knees. Frank, Oswald’s newest recruit, then gives him an encouraging boot to the backside.

Oswald likes him already.

Mick crawls across the floor until he reaches the desk, fingers shaking as he obediently removes the false panel. Frank yanks him away by the collar once it’s disassembled and Oswald reaches inside to withdraw a notebook. Flipping it open reveals a handwritten ledger.

Butch deadpans, as he stares down at Mick, “Oh gee, what could that be?”

Oswald snorts, then flips the pages to the most recent entries. He then thumbs backward to last quarter and compares it with his memory of the reports he’s been perusing at his own office. The anomaly is rather easy to narrow in on, and Oswald discovers that Mick has been skimming from the profits of Oswald’s production for a little over eight months.

“You’ve stolen quite a bit of money, Mick,” Oswald observes as he reviews the numbers. “I must say, your method of cooking books is applaudable. However, when one begins making adjustments to one’s ledgers it’s important to make sure those changes are uniform.”

Mick furrows his brow, clearly lost.

Oswald rolls his eyes. “Butch, would you care to explain in colloquial terms where Mick here screwed the pooch?”

Butch pulls Mick’s hair so that he’s forced to angle his gaze up to his own. “You forgot to change the weights on the containers, genius.”

Mick closes his eyes, and groans. “Fuck.”

“Here’s the rub, Mick,” Oswald says, making his way over and grabbing a folding chair from the weigh table. He sits it right before where Mick is kneeling on the floor and takes a seat so that they’re almost eye-level.

“You’ve been a loyal, profitable employee,” Oswald praises. “Tell me what possessed you to steal from me, and you’ll be shown mercy.”

Mick shudders as he exhales, his relief palatable. “I was going to invest it in the Wonderland serum. On—on your behalf. See if I couldn’t turn a profit, and then sell the idea to you. You know…expand your business. Branch out a bit.”

“I have three simple rules, Mick,” Oswald reminds with a sigh as he ticks them off on his fingers. “Do not steal from me, deal only in the products I specifically approve— ”

“But it’s just weed, man—sir,” Mick insists, emphatic in his appeal. “This shit is small fries compared to the new stuff that’s out there. I could make you a fortune, Mister Penguin!”

Honestly, the gall.

As if he somehow knows better than Oswald the viability of the market. As if Oswald is unaware of how profitable it is to push experimental drugs to teenagers—children, effectively. What this idiot fails to recognize is that he is not the owner of this operation. Oswald pays him to harvest, package and ship marijuana. Not heroin. Not cocaine. And certainly not any of those vile new concoctions making rounds.

In answer to Mick’s plea, Oswald backhands him across the jaw.

He cannot adequately express how opposed he is to the idea of ‘branching out.’ Not because there isn’t some part of him that wants to get in while the profiting is hot—No. It’s that, unlike Mick, Oswald’s ambition is tempered with experience and hard truths. One innocent death of a child, indirectly accountable or not—just one—is all it would take to lose him everything he has built, up to and including Jim.

Marijuana may not be trendy, but it’s reasonably safe.

Unlike the Wonderland serum or whatever the hell else is being pushed out there, marijuana is a stable investment. It’s relatively low-risk, the pool of buyers is established and constantly growing, if slowly, and it retains its value better than gold. It may as well be the Roth IRA of illegal pharmaceuticals, and Oswald has always considered it a worthy investment. His share, of course, is certainly the largest it’s ever been but it’s not the worst thing Oswald could be arrested for, at the very least.

In any event, had Oswald failed to notice the discrepancy between the weight of the containers and the reported profits, it’s very probable Mick would have succeeded in his ill-advised course. Launched it beneath his very nose and Oswald would have taken the ultimate fall, been held accountable for any associated deaths, and everything he has held in jeopardy if this man had made the slightest error.

As he did with his own ledgers.

Oswald rubs a hand down his face, distressed by the very thought. The near miss is too close for comfort, and he might be somewhat familiar with loss, but certainly he’s never had so much to lose as now. This worthless idiot could have cost him everything in a matter of a few short months, and it’s this truth which Oswald simply cannot forgive.

He grabs Mick’s collar and pulls him close, shaking with how incensed he is in the moment, so he can quietly demand, “What’s the third rule, Mick?”

“No…” Mick swallows, tears cropping at the corners of his eyes. “No unnecessary risks.”

“Which includes stepping on the toes of our rivals,” Oswald says, releasing his grip on Mick’s shirt and pushing him forcefully back. “I own the market on marijuana in this city. It’s part of a long-standing agreement I have with the man-haters, something I doubt your small-minded ambitions took into account when you supposedly hatched this scheme on my behalf. Which, spare me, by the way _._ ”

He ignores Mick in favor of fixing Butch with a contrite frown. “Does he think I’m stupid?”

Butch shrugs. “I dunno, Boss. Does it matter?”

“You’re absolutely right,” Oswald agrees with an indifferent huff.

He’ll be true to his word, at least. A quick death is merciful indeed compared to the suffering Oswald is half-tempted to inflict. Setting his jaw, he pushes himself up from his chair and starts back toward the stairs. When he reaches the landing above, Oswald snaps his fingers and, just like that, Mick is no more.

***

“Who you gonna get to take his place,” Butch asks on their way back to the lounge. He then clicks his tongue before attempting to answer his own question. “Ivy, right?”

Oswald sighs. “Absolutely not.”

“That’s her thing though, isn’t it?”

“Killing people for picking dandelions is also her thing,” Oswald points out. “She’s too…volatile. Besides, we don’t have much of a rapport these days.”

Butch hums, then grins as he retrieves a Ziploc baggie full of product from his coat pocket. “Remember that time Fish hotboxed us in her limo?”

Oswald tries to fight it, but he huffs a laugh despite himself, then refocuses. “The cleaners have been called?”

“Yup,” Butch confirms as they pull to a stop in front of a tobacco store. “Our guys are taking out the trash as we speak.”

“Why are we stopping?” He asks, suddenly feeling weary; all he wants is to grab his things from the office and go home. This evening has been exhausting. He is unsettled by the insolent manner in which Mick disrespected him and his operation. How many cogs within his empire are functioning with equal impudence? He’ll have to coordinate an investigation somehow; devise an unobtrusive way to get a bead on the outlying arms of his business.

“I don’t have any papers,” Butch explains as their driver gets out and enters the shop. He extracts another bag from his jacket and tosses it into Oswald’s lap.

“I got one for you too.” Butch sniffs. “You seemed a little tense back there.”

Oswald takes the baggie, weighs it carefully in his hand. What is he going to do with an entire ounce of marijuana? It isn’t that Oswald doesn’t know _what_ to do with it, he rather enjoys the effects, but he hasn’t partaken since Jim moved into the manor. He sometimes wishes he had some stashed around the house, though, if just to alleviate the constant throbbing of his ankle on a bad day. Even so, it’s quite a lot for someone who rarely indulges.  He eyes his colleague—what the hell is _Butch_ going to do with an ounce?

“Two words.” Butch grins, as if reading his mind. “Enhanced Orgasms.”

Oswald groans. “I’m deducting both of these from your salary.”

Butch cackles, unrepentant. They both know Oswald isn’t going to do any such thing.

***

The process of recruiting a new distributor proves difficult, as Oswald is exercising extreme prejudice. He ‘interviews’ several mid-tier dealers, reviewing the files his spies assemble for him and subsequently tossing them into the trash as if they were bubblegum wrappers. There’s no way to post a formal job listing in the paper, but Oswald has provided word to the proverbial street. Unfortunately, word-of-mouth advertising sometimes attracts more riff-raff than qualified candidates.

He’s in the midst of reviewing the projected completion dates for various stages of development on the Iceberg Casino—having decided his distributor problem can be a headache for another day—when he hears a voice that still gives him nightmares.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown, no?”

Rationally, he knows it isn’t Jerome, but looking up to see Jeremiah’s pale face as he stands in the entry of Oswald’s office at the lounge is terrifying all the same.

Oswald grinds his teeth to contain a yelp which would undoubtedly only serve to encourage the remaining Valeska twin. He straightens his shoulders and raises his chin, unwilling to be cowed in such a way. He forces a smile onto his face—all too happy to make its insincerity obvious by revealing the sharp edges of his canines as he haughtily inquires, “Can I help you?”

He casually leans away, as if distancing himself from something foul, when Jeremiah crosses his office to take a seat at his desk. Valeska makes a show of straightening his scarlet bow tie and smoothing the lapels of his deep emerald waistcoat. “I hear your…business has a newly vacated position.”

Oswald forgets to be wary in favor of astonishment. “I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head, “are you seriously asking to work for me?”

Jeremiah shrugs. “I can provide references.”

“You tried to blow up the city,” Oswald remonstrates, not the least bit kindly. “I don’t hire wanted fugitives.”

“Says the man who met my brother in Arkham,” Jeremiah argues, tone implicatory but not mocking, Oswald doesn’t fail to note.

“I was pardoned,” he states, then adds piously, “for saving the city from him, as a matter of fact.”

Jeremiah smiles tightly. “I’m not my brother.”

“No,” Oswald agrees as he leans forward, forearms resting on his desk, so he can stare directly into those calculating green eyes. “You are far more dangerous. You think I don’t know what you’re after?”

As Oswald moves to lean back, rethinking his attempt to poke the bear at this distance, Jeremiah stalls him with a sudden hand around his forearm. He leans into Oswald’s space, face entirely too close for comfort. “This has nothing to do with your beloved Captain, I assure you.”

“Bruce Wayne, then,” Oswald boldly insists with an impatient huff. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Jeremiah grits his teeth before he confesses, “I’ve had time to…reevaluate my opinion.” His eyes lose focus for a moment, turning inward before he says, “I misjudged him.”

Oswald raises a brow, says nothing.

Jeremiah takes it as the initiative it is; Oswald will hear him out. “Have you ever…seen the potential in someone, only to have them disappoint you when they squander it?”

Oswald rolls his eyes. “To put it mildly,” he concedes.

“When I met Bruce, he told me I had a brilliant mind. Said that I was a genius,” Jeremiah continues, his words paced carefully in that indiscernible accent he shares with his brother. “I thought he saw me, but he only saw one side—that’s always been a problem for me.

“Jerome insisted that I was just as crazy as he was and anyone who knew my true identity eventually assumed the same. It’s why I hid for so long.”

“As interesting as this has been,” Oswald interjects, completely jaded to the tangent-inclined nature of Gotham’s varied terrorists, “I fail to see what it has to do with me, or my business.”

“You’re the only other person I’ve ever met who knows what it’s like to be a little bit of both,” Jeremiah insists, quietly intense. “Your mind whirs and your soul is…” he flicks his eyes up, locking them onto Oswald’s gaze, “on fire.”

Oswald sucks in an unsteady breath, shaken.

“I see you,” Jeremiah asserts, “and you see me, don’t you?”

Oswald cannot deny that he does. They are absolutely not the same—their experiences and motives are vastly different—yet their core…is undeniably similar. But then, he’d seen the same thing in Ed once upon a time.

“Perhaps,” Oswald admits, adding, “but that doesn’t mean I can trust you.”

Jeremiah’s smile is twitchy as he says, “I didn’t ask you to.”

“I’m not an anarchist.”

“I’m not trying to convert you,” Jeremiah replies with a shrug. “I just need a way to lay low and acquire some resources.”

Oswald narrows his eyes. “For what?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he admits. “But I can promise, in exchange for your good faith, is that whatever I do decide, I will not directly endanger you or the esteemed Captain Gordon.”

Oswald huffs. “Why should I chance your betrayal? I’ve seen what you’re capable of, after all.”

“A man’s word is his bond, Oswald,” Jeremiah says. “Besides, I do happen to be a renowned engineer. Have you ever considered automation? I could turn your risky side-ventures into well-oiled, autonomous machines. All I’m asking for in exchange is a nominal fee upon delivery, and your word that my presence in Gotham remains undiscovered.”

The responsible, safe option is to tell Jeremiah to take his offer and leave Gotham, before Oswald has him thrown across the bridge to the mainland in a body bag. Knowing his luck, however, Jeremiah would somehow survive or otherwise be freakishly reanimated and seek revenge. This moment represents one of life’s rare opportunities. Oswald could squander it out of fear or he could seize it to attain a potentially powerful allegiance—one that is being offered, apparently, quite exclusively.

If Jeremiah proves even a tenth of a fraction more reasonable than his brother, then he would indeed be a worthy ally. An ace up the sleeve, as they say. His role as Oswald’s distributor would be temporary, lasting only long enough for Jeremiah to prove true to his claimed abilities. Too, the benefit from automation, frankly, is immeasurable. The clencher, however, is the protection it offers Jim should he ever find himself on the other side of whatever future plans Jeremiah might enact.

His decision must read somewhere in his expression, because Jeremiah smiles as he finally releases Oswald’s arm. Never one to allow an opponent to feel too comfortable, Oswald reaches out and grips Jeremiah in a full mimicry of his own hold.

“There are three rules,” Oswald states coldly.

Jeremiah arches a brow, his eyes alight with a seemingly newfound respect. Oswald pushes it aside, unwilling to fan his own ego when the impression of these boundaries is so very important.

“Do not steal from me,” Oswald begins his list, “ever. You will produce and distribute only the products which I specifically approve. And lastly,” Oswald says, narrowing his eyes shrewdly, “you will take no unnecessary risks to distribute or otherwise expand without my express consent.”

He finally releases Jeremiah’s arm, both of them retreating to a more comfortable distance as they regard one another. Suddenly, there’s the clicking of a pistol cocking from the doorway, and Oswald looks up to see Butch, wide-eyed with his gun aimed at their new distributor’s head. His timing is impeccable. Oswald could wave his hand and be rid of this man and all the potential trouble he represents.

Instead, Oswald heaves a sigh. “That’s quite enough, Butch.” He then gestures at Jeremiah introductorily. “Meet our new head of distribution.”

Butch warily looks between the two of them before he lowers his gun. “Apologies,” he intones through clenched teeth.

“What he lacks in manners,” Oswald scolds, conversationally as he addresses Jeremiah, “he makes up for in loyalty.”

Oswald fairly giggles at the agitated way in which Butch rubs at his forehead before the man finally replies, “You know he ain’t gonna like this.”

As if Oswald needs a reminder of precisely what Jim’s thoughts would be on the matter. “Then it’s a good thing he’s not involved in running my business, isn’t it?” He testily snipes, before sighing.

“I’ll cross that bridge if it becomes necessary.” That’s how their working relationship has always operated, anyway, and Oswald doesn’t expect it will change. “In the meantime, you can drive Mister Valeska to the facility and give him the tour.”

“Whatever you say, Boss,” Butch replies, still wary but ultimately willing.

Jeremiah is almost through the door when Oswald says, “I’ve one more rule, for you specifically.”

Pale green eyes turn to him inquisitively.

“My good faith is in short supply these days.” He warns, “Don’t ever make me regret extending it to you.”

***

Oddly enough, it isn’t the lingering anxiety over his risky new distributor that spurs Oswald to hunt down the ounce of weed he’s somehow managed to misplace.

Instead, Oswald is jolted awake in the wee morning hours by a muscle cramp in his lower leg. He grits his teeth against the pain, lest he cry out and wake Jim who actually has to keep a regular schedule. Oswald tries to be courteous of this fact, always goes to bed when Jim does even if he isn’t ready to sleep. He doesn’t mind being abandoned with a book, reading contentedly, while Jim breathes quietly beside him. In fact, he quite enjoys it.

These moments of solitude—where Oswald grinds his teeth against the waves of shooting agony—are much less enjoyable. The pain is excruciating, even for Oswald whose threshold is much higher than most, spending his days in a constant state of varying degrees of aching. Still, every so often the muscles he strains just to walk will bite back with sharp, relentless spasms that are strong enough to steal his breath. Flareups are unpredictable, but with the threat of rain looming over the city the past few days, Oswald is simply resigned to his sleepless fate.

Unless…

Oswald carefully shuffles out of bed, rubbing his bare arms against the chill as he collects his blouse from where it’s draped over the headboard. He likes these [pajamas](https://www.amazon.it/SaiDeng-Pigiama-Inverno-Accappatoio-Cintura/dp/B01M3RCQ5T), acquired from the same store Jim visited to find Oswald’s red gown. It’s a satin three-piece with cropped pants, a tank top and a loose-fitting jacket. He bought it for the design, dark blue with swirling, gold Chinese dragons and medallions. Oswald doesn’t wear socks to bed, so he stuffs his feet into his loafers and slips quietly from the room.

He slowly treads down the hallway, past the staircase all the way to the room he slept in when his father first invited him to stay. Oswald pulls open the top drawer of the small desk in front of the window, pushes up the false bottom to retrieve the bag, only to find an empty compartment.  

Flummoxed, Oswald considers that perhaps in his haste to hide it away, his memory of stashing it in this particular drawer is skewed. Every minute on his bad leg is a test of fate—two seconds away from landing on his backside like an invalid—and so it’s with an impatient flash of annoyance that he begins meticulously searching every drawer in the vicinity.

He’s half-way through the third drawer of the tall dresser in the corner, when he hears a throat clear from behind. He stifles a pained cry as he turns, startled, to see a surly Jim standing in the doorway. His hair is disheveled from sleep, eyes tired and pinched around the edges, mouth curved into a hard frown. For a moment, Oswald believes Jim’s apparent frustration is due to having made enough noise to wake him from his much-needed sleep. Upon second glance, however, Oswald notices that in Jim’s hand, is the missing ounce.

“Looking for this?” Jim asks, accusingly.

Oswald blinks. “Yes, actually.”

Jim’s brow knits, as if Oswald’s meaning is unclear in some way. He’s in too much pain to address Jim’s conflicting moral code, however, especially as it presents an unnecessary obstacle to his immediate relief. He limps, half doubled over with each step, as he crosses the room to where his fiancé is stood in the doorway—looking down from his self-righteous high horse—and snatches the bag from Jim’s hand.

To the man’s credit, upon seeing Oswald’s obvious struggle, he seems to forget all about his intended drug bust. Jim doesn’t even so much as tighten his grip to prevent Oswald from taking the bag. Instead, he comes up on Oswald’s bad side, pulls his right arm across his shoulders and wraps one of his own around Oswald’s waist. Jim bears the majority of his weight this way, and Oswald could cry for how it takes the strain off his leg.

“Alright?” Jim asks, as they slowly trek back toward their bedroom.

Oswald shakes his head. “No, actually.”

Jim presses a kiss against his temple as they enter the room. “I shouldn’t’ve—I’m sorry,” he says, remorseful, as he helps Oswald back into bed.

“Perks of being engaged to the fuzz,” Oswald teases, only mildly sarcastic.

“It’s an _ounce_ of weed, Oz,” Jim shoots back, exasperated. “What was I supposed to think?”

Oswald could point out the obvious, which is that he is wealthy enough to have a host of illicit habits, marijuana the least of which. Or, alternatively, assert the simple truth that Oswald owns the city’s entire stockpile and an ounce isn’t the half of it. Neither of those things ring as particularly helpful, however, so he bites his tongue.

“How did you even find it?” Oswald deflects.

“I followed the dead skunk smell.”

“It isn’t—” Oswald sniffs the bag. It’s quite dank, as the kids say. “Whatever. Where’s the rest of it?”

Jim, apparently still having reservations about condoning Oswald’s procurement and use of an illicit substance, rubs a hand over his pinched expression. Ultimately, he pushes to his feet and stiffly walks to the bathroom. When he reemerges, Oswald’s bag from the smoke shop he and Butch visited is clutched loosely at his side. He offers it up to sheepishly.

Gingerly, Oswald accepts the bag and digs through it to find the unused grinder and pipe. He’s never been a fan of rolled papers. Why singe your fingernails when you can smoke it properly? As he prepares the bowl, careful not to dirty the bedding, he can feel Jim watching.

And judging.

Finally, Oswald huffs and looks up to meet Jim’s contrite expression. “Honestly, Jim, you’d think I was murdering someone. Which, by the way, I have done. Allegedly. But this?” Oswald holds up the pipe to emphasize his point. “This is the deal breaker?” 

Jim seems to snap out of his trance, eyes wide as he repeats, “Deal breaker?” He scrunches up his nose. “Of course not. I just…didn’t think you did…that.”

Oswald rolls his eyes, in far too much pain to have this conversation. He flicks the lighter, puts it to the bowl and takes a nice, long hit. He holds it in his lungs, exhales slowly. Immediately, his limbs begin to feel heavy, the whir of his mind slowing to something more manageable. Something a bit looser.

“James,” Oswald finally says, scooting over to make room before holding out his hand. Jim takes it, allows himself to be guided into the proffered space. When Jim is settled, obviously still feeling conflicted over letting Oswald partake in his presence, he says, “I’m going to need you to quit judging me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you are,” Oswald insists, squeezing his hand. He takes another hit from his pipe, waving the smoke away so that it’s not in Jim’s face.

“Is it…I mean, can’t you get a prescription for your leg?” Jim asks, so sweetly naïve. Sometimes, Oswald is amazed by Jim’s innocent ignorance in regard to certain things.

“I could,” Oswald allows, then shrugs. “But I prefer to be clear-headed during the day.”

“This is clear-headed?” Jim asks as if to imply a paradox in Oswald’s methods.

“It’s not like what you think,” he insists, taking in the disbelieving arch of his fiancé’s brow. “I mean, yes, I am defiantly— _definitely_ high.”

Jim stares at him bemusedly, as Oswald devolves into a fit of giggles. Some of the tension seems to relax from his spine, however, as he rubs Oswald’s back.

“Jesus,” he says, rueful.

“What I’m trying to explain,” Oswald manages to say when his giggles subside, “is that the high is temporary. But I won’t need to smoke again right away. Whereas pills’re all the time, Jim." He turns his head to look at Jim fully, "Why does it bother you so much?”

“I just…” Jim shrugs. “I just want you to be safe.”

“It’s weed, sweetheart.” Oswald grins. “I’m in no danger of overdosing, though I appreciate your irrational concern.”

“I know—”

“Do you?” Oswald presses. “Have you ever tried it?”

“Oswald.”

“I’m not offering,” Oswald shamelessly lies, holding up placating hands. “I’m just asking if your concern is based on first-hand experience or the system's propaganda!”

Jim snorts, eyes fond as they search Oswald’s face.

“What?” he finally asks, when Jim continues his silent scrutiny.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Jim sighs. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this…loose.”

“Exactly,” Oswald agrees with a grin he knows is far too wide. He can’t help it though, Jim is so sweet. He deserves to kick back and relax, take a vacation.

Smoke weed.

“Hey, Jim?” Oswald asks, eyeing his fiancé—Oswald has a fiancé!—as he dumps the ashes from his pipe into the bag and packs a second bowl. “Let me preface by saying, I completely understand your hesitance and I would never pressure you to do something you really don’t want to, but you seem awfully curious—”

“Oswald,” Jim says his name firmly. That’s how Jim says his name—like an exhausted mother hen—when he thinks Oswald is being especially ornery. “No.”

Oswald fights to contain his amusement. “Hear me out,” he insists, “I think if you tried it yourself you wouldn’t be so worried about me.” He scrunches his nose. “You’re so tense.”

“I’m a cop, Oswald. Sitting here watching you smoke it is already bad enough,” Jim complains, testy.

“Exactly!” Oswald enthusiastically agrees. “You’re already across the line, you’re probably going to get a contact anyway sitting so close, you may as well give it a go.” Oswald shrugs. “S’all I’m saying.”

Jim sighs. “Even if I were curious…it’s against the law, and I’m subject to regular drug screens.”

“ _Please!_ ” Oswald blows a very undignified raspberry at that. “First of all, the law is dumb, and, anyway, I can make sure your test comes back clean, silly.”

“Not helping,” Jim demands, contrite.

Oswald tisks. “It’s my duty, as your future husband, to protect you. Which includes shielding you from entirely unnecessary drug screens.”

“That’s not the point,” Jim insists. “It’ll just be one more law I’m bending, another layer of hypocrisy.”

“God," Oswald bemoans, "You’re so good, Jim." His tongue is a bit looser than normal as he guilelessly admits, “I’m not a good person.”

Jim’s eyes widen, stricken, his expression solemn as he says, “You’re my person.”

Oswald groans. “See? You give me all the good stuff. What am I even supposed to say to that, Jim? I mean, I literally think the sun shines out of your ass, but it doesn’t sound half as romantic as ‘you’re my person’. For fuck’s sake.”

Jim chuckles, eyes soft as he teases, “I can try to stop—”

“Don’t ever stop!” Oswald demands, earning one of Jim’s rare, unreserved cackles. He yawns, then, content as he stretches before taking another hit. “I didn’t mean to push.” He giggles, as he adds, “I support your sobriety, Jim.”

“Shut-up.” Jim shakes his head, then holds out his hand. “Give it here.”

Oswald raises an eyebrow, then narrows his gaze, suspicious. “I don’t’ think so,” he denies. “You didn’t want to, and now it’s just the guilt talking.”

“It’s not guilt,” Jim says, nose pinched stubbornly.

“You’re gonna throw it away, aren’t you?” Oswald accuses, pouting. His slightly paranoid nature is somewhat amplified at current. Though, it’s more a background hum rather than an outright panicky feeling. Oswald’s highs are mostly very relaxed, an immediate precursor to pain relief and sleep accompanied by mild euphoria. He just knows the lengths to which Jim will go to care for the people he loves.

“I’m not going to throw it away,” Jim replies, exasperated. “It’s obviously helping with the pain.”

Oswald smiles, nods his assertion.

“I just,” Jim continues with a weighty sigh, “I think you have a point. About the worrying.”

With a sigh, Oswald finally hands over the pipe. “Here.”

Jim takes the pipe and lighter, head tilted like he’s trying to solve a grand puzzle. “Like tobacco, right?”

The question, coupled with his look of utter confusion, sets Oswald into another fit of giddy laughter. Jim levels him with a flat stare, which doesn’t help. At all.

Eventually, Oswald pats his lap. “Come here.”

“What—”

“No questions,” Oz interjects. “Just do.”

Bemusedly, Jim passes Oswald’s things back to him before situating himself on his lap. “Okay…?”

Oswald puckers his lips. “Kiss me.”

“Jesus Christ.” Jim sounds exasperated but he loves it, Oswald can tell by the way his eyes go warm as he closes the distance between them. The way his lips are upturned as they smile against Oswald’s own.

When Jim pulls back, kissing duties fulfilled, Oswald holds up the pipe and says, “It actually hits quite a bit harder than tobacco. I can ease you into it.”

“Okay…” Jim replies, and Oswald can see how nervous he is now that they’re so close.

He forces himself to push aside his own giddiness and focus on making Jim more comfortable. This is one of the reasons he prefers marijuana to prescription pain pills or even alcohol. If an issue arises while Oswald is high, he can still rouse his better judgement and clear his mind enough to deal with it. He’s never been so lethargic, after smoking that he couldn’t control his own limbs.

It’s not a trial to run soothing hands along Jim’s thighs, as he says, “I’m going to hit the pipe for you. After I do, lean in and suck it from my mouth. Don’t actually kiss me though, or it’ll just come out your nose.”

Jim’s eyebrows are near the ceiling. “Who the hell taught you that?”

Oswald smirks. “Jealous?”

“No…” Jim denies, then grimaces. “Maybe.”

“Fish used to do it to her boyfriends.” He knows his smile is wicked when he adds, “You should ask Harvey about it sometime.”

“Pass.”

“Fair enough.” Oswald huffs a laugh, as he raises the pipe and lighter. “Oh, don’t exhale right away. Try to hold it in your lungs a little before letting it go.” He then smiles encouragingly as he asks, “Ready?”

Jim takes a breath, then nods.

Oswald hits the pipe, draws it all into his mouth and holds it there. Thick smoke curls between his parted lips when he pulls the pipe away. Jim follows Oswald’s instructions to the letter, their gazes locked as he bring his lips tantalizingly close. There’s a moment of utter stillness between them, then another, before Jim literally sucks the air from Oswald’s mouth.

Admirably, Jim manages to hold it in for a handful of seconds before he gives into the inevitable coughing fit of a true amateur. It’s an adorable look on Jim, Oswald has to admit. Instead of asking Jim how he feels right away, he takes another hit from the pipe, and beckons Jim with a crook of his finger to go again.

They exchange three or four more before Jim rolls off his lap and plops onto his back in the middle of the bed. Oswald caches the pipe and leans over to place it and its accessories on the bedside table. He then rolls onto his side, leaning on his elbow to prop his head up and meet Jim’s bleary-eyed gaze.

Jim grins up at him. “Holy shit.”

Oswald snorts, checking his giggles just enough to lean forward and kiss Jim soundly on the mouth. “Good?”

“Oz, baby,” Jim says, clearly fighting the urge to laugh—always a struggle at the beginning of a good high. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this comfortable. This bed is amazing. Is it always this soft?”

Oswald licks his lips, hums. “Things feel…a bit more intense sometimes. It depends on the strain. I zoned out when my supplier went on a tangent. Some people are a little too enthusiastic about their tiny trees.”

“They do look like tiny trees.”

“Hedges.”

Jim giggles. “I require a shrubbery.”

They both devolve into cackles at that, Oswald collapsing onto Jim, leaning across his chest as they try, and fail, several times to regain their composure. Oswald has rarely smoked with anyone else, and in the cases where he did, he was never comfortable enough to let his inhibitions loose entirely. With Jim, it’s so much easier, so much more enjoyable. Which comes as no surprise, really.

Oswald’s entire life is better for sharing it with Jim, after all.

“I love you,” he confesses, dopily, as he presses an ear to Jim’s chest. He likes listening to the sounds of Jim existing—the thump of his heart from beneath his ribs, the whoosh of oxygen as it’s drawn into his lungs and pushed back out, the soft gurgles of his stomach.

He frowns. “Are you hungry?”

Jim’s hands are clumsily rubbing up and down Oswald’s spine. “Yeah,” he admits. “But I don’t wanna move. You were right. I still feel like myself but everything else seems far away. Everything feels…good.”

Oswald would reply, but he is suddenly on his back, Jim grinning mischievously above him as he wedges himself between Oswald’s legs. “You feel really good too,” Jim adds. “Is that normal?”

Oswald shrugs, remembering Butch’s claims from days before. “Apparently.”

Jim rolls his hips and Oswald chokes on a groan because, holy shit is absolutely right. “Keep doing that,” he breathily pleads.

Jim’s hands are clumsy, though no less arousing for it, as he runs them up Oswald’s thighs, over his hips and along his sides, then back down, over and over, in a wanton caress.

“Fuckin’ love these pajamas,” Jim declares against the curve of Oswald’s throat, lips playing at the skin where his neck meets with his shoulder. “You feel so fucking good, you’re so fucking pretty.”

“Oh, my God.” Oswald groans when Jim slips a hand into his pants. Oswald isn’t wearing panties, so there’s nothing to impede Jim from wrapping Oswald’s cock in a firm grip and pulling just right.

“C’mon, you too. Touch me, baby,” Jim pleads.

Oswald is fairly overwhelmed by these unexpected results, but far be it from him to deny Jim anything. He pushes Jim’s pants down, just below the curve of his ass, and happily obliges. It’s a clumsy, half-fumbled climb, but Jim’s touch, his mouth, and his words never fail to deliver.

And now, both of them already euphoric, when Jim finally whispers helplessly, “I’m gonna come. _Fuck_ ,” Oswald can’t help but respond in kind. It crashes over him like a tsunami, every pulse of his release like an aftershock, so that all he can do is give himself over to it.

When it’s over, Jim collapses against him with a breathless chuckle. “That was…intense.”

“Hafta give Butch a raise.”  

***

They wake up in the morning crusty-eyed and stuck together, Jim looking rather remorseful as he carefully peels their shirts apart. Oswald blushes when he imagines his drycleaner’s reaction to the state of his pajamas. He turns a raised brow to his fiancé.

“So…” Oswald says, drawing Jim’s attention from his delicate task. “Someone’s a bit of a tart, as it turns out.”

Jim glares at him balefully for all of a second before he erupts into a fit of shameless laughter. He snags the pillow right out from under Oswald’s head and whacks him soundly. Oswald retaliates by going right for Jim’s ribs, tickling until he rolls away in a bid for freedom.

“In all seriousness,” Oswald says, “are you…okay with last night?”

Jim grins, eyes warm with affection. “I’m okay,” he confirms.

Oswald sniffs, fiddling with the unsoiled hem of his tank top, giving voice to a lingering concern. “I didn’t…push you, did I?”

“Oz, you were so damn sweet I doubt you could pushed a button last night.” Jim leans forward and pecks him on the lips. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“I haven’t felt that relaxed since before I joined the Marines,” Jim confesses. He then adds, grinning deviously, “And I’m pretty sure that was the best orgasm of my life.”

“So far,” Oswald amends. “We can do better.”

Whatever Jim might’ve said is halted by the sound of Oswald’s phone, piercing through the mood unforgivingly. Jim pecks him on the lips once more before climbing over Oswald and out of the bed. He snatches up the phone, pulls it free of the charger and tosses it over before heading to the bathroom.

Oswald sighs, staring longingly at the closed door before flipping the phone open. His tone is curt. “What?”

“Good morning, Oswald.”

Edward.

Oswald swallows, grateful when he hears the shower come on but pitching his voice low to be cautious. “You’re only to contact me on this phone in the event of an emergency.”

“I thought the general rule for fire safety was prevention,” Edward replies imperiously.

“Oh, for God’s sake, just spit it out,” Oswald demands with a hiss.

“I left Lee.”

“Oh.” Oswald carefully inquires, “Alive?”

“Yes, Oswald. ‘Left’ is not synonymous with ‘stabbed,’ is it?” Ed clears his throat following his fitful denial. “Kinda…need a place to crash.”

Oswald blinks, mouth opening and closing before he finally shakes his head. “No, no. Absolutely not.”

“I’m outside.”

Oswald squeezes his eyes shut, willing away the blind fury trying to take root. “I’ll be down in minute.”

He snaps the phone shut just as Jim emerges from the shower, gloriously naked save for the towel around his hips.

“I don’t like that look,” Jim remarks, cautiously. “What happened?”

“Ed is downstairs,” Oswald informs. “He needs a place to crash.”

“Nygma’s downstairs?”

“Yes, that’s what I said—Jim, where are you going?” Oswald pushes out of bed, wraps himself in a long bathrobe as he attempts to follow suit.

He only makes it as far as the top of the staircase before he hears a telling ‘thud’ followed by Ed’s muffled response.

“I deserved ‘dat.”

Oswald looks over the wooden rail of the staircase to see Jim, one hand clutching the towel at his waist, standing menacingly over Ed’s prone form sprawled on the floor. Edward’s nose is gushing all over his Persian rug, both hands occupied trying to stem the bleeding with his purple pocket square.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Oswald groans. “Not on the carpet!”

Suddenly, an ounce of weed doesn’t seem nearly enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so there's really just two things I wanted to address. Well, three.
> 
> First, my Jeremiah IS the joker. I know the producers say that the Valeskas are actually just inspiration for the real joker, but fuck all that. Cameron Monoghan is the best joker since Heath Ledger (eat a dick, Leto) and I'm gonna give him that title, damn it. Also, my version of canon events go divergent after 4x21, BUT in my verse, Selina was no paralyzed by the gunshot and Jeremiah was stopped before blowing up the bridges. 
> 
> I've wanted to bring him in a for a while, and so I alluded to this friendship that had blossomed over ten years in the last installment, where we flashed to the future and Jeremiah is hanging out in the casino. In the comics, they have a friendship and at one point Joker seriously mourns Penguin when he thinks Oswald has died. I thought that was beautiful and so this is me, kind of giving a nod to that friendship. 
> 
> Okay, next point, the OOC-ness of Jim and Oswald while they are high. It's there. It's intentional. I hope it isn't too extreme, but if you've never smoked weed, I can see how you might think it is. And too, it effects everybody differently. Some people just get tired. Some people get paranoid. Some people get the giggles and sometimes, people get a we bit horny. And sometimes, it's a little bit of all of the above. That thing about the orgasms--that's totally true btw. just. fyi. 
> 
> Finally, the drug-trafficking. I one-hundred percent believe this is something Oswald would have his fingers in. It's profitable, it's a given in the criminal world, especially among mobsters and gangs. So...this is absolutely in his wheel house, imo.
> 
> If you guys want to discuss the characters, head canons or the like below--I'm into it!! <3


End file.
